Sometime in November, 2023, fresh off a trip from Cairo, I quit writing on all the platforms I used to. 

I’m not gonna call names, but there were rules over there that I simply wasn’t feeling. And, honestly, I think everyone was just so consumed with being (and writing) perfect(ly) that everyone ended up being too pliant, obedient, doing the same thing and saying the same thing.

I don’t set out to be rebellious three/fourths of the time. I just find myself being that way. So, when I woke up that morning, packed my shit up from alla dem platforms and was like, you know wah? Fuck this! I’mma do my own thing, I wasn’t surprised. I’d kinda known all along that it was just a matter of time my revulsion got the better of me and drove me to do my own thing. Not just because I could (everybody can), but because ultimately, I knew I could do better (only a few can).

That was the morning Tiimbooktu started.

I’ll shatter a myth about readers and writers and people are likely going to lose their shit when they see this (and they’re very free to): People read A LOT and a lot more people than you probably know want to write, but an absence of relatable material and an even greater absence of writers worth emulating dampens their zeal.

The world’s already half-moved past authors who write books that reflect none of the present-day-speak or writers who romanticize misery and overemphasize history. All the writers we see are broke as shit and the ones we hear are rich have an aura and dress sense no better than highwaymen from the 1800s.

Now, we got a few on X but they’re largely irrelevant because all they do is either write complex poems that mean nothing or ceaselessly contribute to social commentary only to be ignored in actual matters of social engineering. Which is why no one you know wants to be a writer because, come to really think of it, what the fuck is there to being one? Nothing.